Martin was steadily losing his battle. Economize as he would, the
earnings from hack-work did not balance expenses. Thanksgiving
found him with his black suit in pawn and unable to accept the
Morses' invitation to dinner. Ruth was not made happy by his
reason for not coming, and the corresponding effect on him was one
of desperation. He told her that he would come, after all; that he
would go over to San Francisco, to the TRANSCONTINENTAL office,
collect the five dollars due him, and with it redeem his suit of
clothes.

In the morning he borrowed ten cents from Maria. He would have
borrowed it, by preference, from Brissenden, but that erratic
individual had disappeared. Two weeks had passed since Martin had
seen him, and he vainly cudgelled his brains for some cause of
offence. The ten cents carried Martin across the ferry to San
Francisco, and as he walked up Market Street he speculated upon his
predicament in case he failed to collect the money. There would
then be no way for him to return to Oakland, and he knew no one in
San Francisco from whom to borrow another ten cents.

The door to the TRANSCONTINENTAL office was ajar, and Martin, in
the act of opening it, was brought to a sudden pause by a loud
voice from within, which exclaimed:— "But that is not the question,
Mr. Ford." (Ford, Martin knew, from his correspondence, to be the
editor's name.) "The question is, are you prepared to pay? — cash,
and cash down, I mean? I am not interested in the prospects of the
TRANSCONTINENTAL and what you expect to make it next year. What I
want is to be paid for what I do. And I tell you, right now, the
Christmas TRANSCONTINENTAL don't go to press till I have the money
in my hand. Good day. When you get the money, come and see me."

The door jerked open, and the man flung past Martin, with an angry
countenance and went down the corridor, muttering curses and
clenching his fists. Martin decided not to enter immediately, and
lingered in the hallways for a quarter of an hour. Then he shoved
the door open and walked in. It was a new experience, the first
time he had been inside an editorial office. Cards evidently were
not necessary in that office, for the boy carried word to an inner
room that there was a man who wanted to see Mr. Ford. Returning,
the boy beckoned him from halfway across the room and led him to
the private office, the editorial sanctum. Martin's first
impression was of the disorder and cluttered confusion of the room.
Next he noticed a bewhiskered, youthful-looking man, sitting at a
roll-top desk, who regarded him curiously. Martin marvelled at the
calm repose of his face. It was evident that the squabble with the
printer had not affected his equanimity.

"I - I am Martin Eden," Martin began the conversation. ("And I
want my five dollars," was what he would have liked to say.)

But this was his first editor, and under the circumstances he did
not desire to scare him too abruptly. To his surprise, Mr. Ford
leaped into the air with a "You don't say so!" and the next moment,
with both hands, was shaking Martin's hand effusively.

"Can't say how glad I am to see you, Mr. Eden. Often wondered what
you were like."

Here he held Martin off at arm's length and ran his beaming eyes
over Martin's second-best suit, which was also his worst suit, and
which was ragged and past repair, though the trousers showed the
careful crease he had put in with Maria's flat-irons.

"I confess, though, I conceived you to be a much older man than you
are. Your story, you know, showed such breadth, and vigor, such
maturity and depth of thought. A masterpiece, that story — I knew
it when I had read the first half-dozen lines. Let me tell you how
I first read it. But no; first let me introduce you to the staff."

Still talking, Mr. Ford led him into the general office, where he
introduced him to the associate editor, Mr. White, a slender, frail
little man whose hand seemed strangely cold, as if he were
suffering from a chill, and whose whiskers were sparse and silky.

"And Mr. Ends, Mr. Eden. Mr. Ends is our business manager, you
know."

Martin found himself shaking hands with a cranky-eyed, bald-headed
man, whose face looked youthful enough from what little could be
seen of it, for most of it was covered by a snow-white beard,
carefully trimmed — by his wife, who did it on Sundays, at which
times she also shaved the back of his neck.

The three men surrounded Martin, all talking admiringly and at
once, until it seemed to him that they were talking against time
for a wager.

"We often wondered why you didn't call," Mr. White was saying.

"I didn't have the carfare, and I live across the Bay," Martin
answered bluntly, with the idea of showing them his imperative need
for the money.

Surely, he thought to himself, my glad rags in themselves are
eloquent advertisement of my need. Time and again, whenever
opportunity offered, he hinted about the purpose of his business.
But his admirers' ears were deaf. They sang his praises, told him
what they had thought of his story at first sight, what they
subsequently thought, what their wives and families thought; but
not one hint did they breathe of intention to pay him for it.

"Did I tell you how I first read your story?" Mr. Ford said. "Of
course I didn't. I was coming west from New York, and when the
train stopped at Ogden, the train-boy on the new run brought aboard
the current number of the TRANSCONTINENTAL."

My God! Martin thought; you can travel in a Pullman while I starve
for the paltry five dollars you owe me. A wave of anger rushed
over him. The wrong done him by the TRANSCONTINENTAL loomed
colossal, for strong upon him were all the dreary months of vain
yearning, of hunger and privation, and his present hunger awoke and
gnawed at him, reminding him that he had eaten nothing since the
day before, and little enough then. For the moment he saw red.
These creatures were not even robbers. They were sneak-thieves.
By lies and broken promises they had tricked him out of his story.
Well, he would show them. And a great resolve surged into his will
to the effect that he would not leave the office until he got his
money. He remembered, if he did not get it, that there was no way
for him to go back to Oakland. He controlled himself with an
effort, but not before the wolfish expression of his face had awed
and perturbed them.

They became more voluble than ever. Mr. Ford started anew to tell
how he had first read "The Ring of Bells," and Mr. Ends at the same
time was striving to repeat his niece's appreciation of "The Ring
of Bells," said niece being a school-teacher in Alameda.

"I'll tell you what I came for," Martin said finally. "To be paid
for that story all of you like so well. Five dollars, I believe,
is what you promised me would be paid on publication."

Mr. Ford, with an expression on his mobile features of mediate and
happy acquiescence, started to reach for his pocket, then turned
suddenly to Mr. Ends, and said that he had left his money home.
That Mr. Ends resented this, was patent; and Martin saw the twitch
of his arm as if to protect his trousers pocket. Martin knew that
the money was there.

"I am sorry," said Mr. Ends, "but I paid the printer not an hour
ago, and he took my ready change. It was careless of me to be so
short; but the bill was not yet due, and the printer's request, as
a favor, to make an immediate advance, was quite unexpected."

Both men looked expectantly at Mr. White, but that gentleman
laughed and shrugged his shoulders. His conscience was clean at
any rate. He had come into the TRANSCONTINENTAL to learn magazine-
literature, instead of which he had principally learned finance.
The TRANSCONTINENTAL owed him four months' salary, and he knew that
the printer must be appeased before the associate editor.

"It's rather absurd, Mr. Eden, to have caught us in this shape,"
Mr. Ford preambled airily. "All carelessness, I assure you. But
I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll mail you a check the first
thing in the morning. You have Mr. Eden's address, haven't you,
Mr. Ends?"

Yes, Mr. Ends had the address, and the check would be mailed the
first thing in the morning. Martin's knowledge of banks and checks
was hazy, but he could see no reason why they should not give him
the check on this day just as well as on the next.

"The unfortunate circumstances — if you had chanced here any other
day," Mr. Ford began suavely, only to be interrupted by Mr. Ends,
whose cranky eyes justified themselves in his shortness of temper.

"Mr. Ford has already explained the situation," he said with
asperity. "And so have I. The check will be mailed — "

"I also have explained," Martin broke in, "and I have explained
that I want the money to-day."

He had felt his pulse quicken a trifle at the business manager's
brusqueness, and upon him he kept an alert eye, for it was in that
gentleman's trousers pocket that he divined the TRANSCONTINENTAL'S
ready cash was reposing.

"It is too bad - " Mr. Ford began.

But at that moment, with an impatient movement, Mr. Ends turned as
if about to leave the room. At the same instant Martin sprang for
him, clutching him by the throat with one hand in such fashion that
Mr. Ends' snow-white beard, still maintaining its immaculate
trimness, pointed ceilingward at an angle of forty-five degrees.
To the horror of Mr. White and Mr. Ford, they saw their business
manager shaken like an Astrakhan rug.

"Dig up, you venerable discourager of rising young talent!" Martin
exhorted. "Dig up, or I'll shake it out of you, even if it's all
in nickels." Then, to the two affrighted onlookers: "Keep away!
If you interfere, somebody's liable to get hurt."

Mr. Ends was choking, and it was not until the grip on his throat
was eased that he was able to signify his acquiescence in the
digging-up programme. All together, after repeated digs, its
trousers pocket yielded four dollars and fifteen cents.

"Inside out with it," Martin commanded.

An additional ten cents fell out. Martin counted the result of his
raid a second time to make sure.

"You next!" he shouted at Mr. Ford. "I want seventy-five cents
more."

Mr. Ford did not wait, but ransacked his pockets, with the result
of sixty cents.

"Sure that is all?" Martin demanded menacingly, possessing himself
of it. "What have you got in your vest pockets?"

In token of his good faith, Mr. Ford turned two of his pockets
inside out. A strip of cardboard fell to the floor from one of
them. He recovered it and was in the act of returning it, when
Martin cried:-

"What's that? — A ferry ticket? Here, give it to me. It's worth
ten cents. I'll credit you with it. I've now got four dollars and
ninety-five cents, including the ticket. Five cents is still due
me."

He looked fiercely at Mr. White, and found that fragile creature in
the act of handing him a nickel.

"Thank you," Martin said, addressing them collectively. "I wish
you a good day."

"Robber!" Mr. Ends snarled after him.

"Sneak-thief!" Martin retorted, slamming the door as he passed out.

Martin was elated — so elated that when he recollected that THE
HORNET owed him fifteen dollars for "The Peri and the Pearl," he
decided forthwith to go and collect it. But THE HORNET was run by
a set of clean-shaven, strapping young men, frank buccaneers who
robbed everything and everybody, not excepting one another. After
some breakage of the office furniture, the editor (an ex-college
athlete), ably assisted by the business manager, an advertising
agent, and the porter, succeeded in removing Martin from the office
and in accelerating, by initial impulse, his descent of the first
flight of stairs.

"Come again, Mr. Eden; glad to see you any time," they laughed down
at him from the landing above.

Martin grinned as he picked himself up.

"Phew!" he murmured back. "The TRANSCONTINENTAL crowd were nanny-
goats, but you fellows are a lot of prize-fighters."

More laughter greeted this.

"I must say, Mr. Eden," the editor of THE HORNET called down, "that
for a poet you can go some yourself. Where did you learn that
right cross — if I may ask?"

"Where you learned that half-Nelson," Martin answered. "Anyway,
you're going to have a black eye."

"I hope your neck doesn't stiffen up," the editor wished
solicitously: "What do you say we all go out and have a drink on
it — not the neck, of course, but the little rough-house?"

"I'll go you if I lose," Martin accepted.

And robbers and robbed drank together, amicably agreeing that the
battle was to the strong, and that the fifteen dollars for "The
Peri and the Pearl" belonged by right to THE HORNET'S editorial
staff.